


A Touch of Pink

by omphale23



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Not My Fault. <i>He would completely freak out all over Fraser, who would comfort him...Then Ray would take his pink hair and his motorcycle boots and beat the ever-loving crap out of anyone who dared to mock him..."Fraser cannot help but wonder whether, should he be so foolish as to comfort Ray in the manner he dreams, the carpet would match the drapes. He assumes that it would not, and yet. Ray's usual desire to thoroughly complete any task makes it possible that he has, in this, decided to complete his transformation."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Touch of Pink

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://jamethiel-bane.livejournal.com/profile)[**jamethiel_bane**](http://jamethiel-bane.livejournal.com/) for a kickass beta job. Any remaining issues (including the ending) are entirely my fault. This came about because [](http://slidellra.livejournal.com/profile)[**slidellra**](http://slidellra.livejournal.com/) won a bet, and presented me with the prompt "RayK hits something. Hard" as a forfeit.

Ray stared at the mirror. He glared at the waiting trendy kids behind him, the bored receptionist, the stylist with the green mohawk who had replaced Larry and who turned out not to be listening when he sat down for his monthly haircut.

This was not what he meant when he said he wanted experimental. This was--he wasn't sure what this was. A disaster. A mess. A freak show. A complete clusterfuck of Canadian proportions.

It was pink. Shaped, and spiked, and ("Fucking Pink! I have to go to work like this! Are you insane? Do you know what I do for a living?") totally wrong.

The stylist, who no matter what was not getting a tip, backed away. Ray snarled and jumped out of the chair, searching for something, anything, to take a swing at. Short of busting a giant mirror (which was a major pain in the ass, and not something he wanted to do again because hearing about how precious mirrors were in traditional cultures was not his idea of a good time) there wasn't much to choose from. They had a potted plant he could throw at the wall, but it wasn't the plant's fault he looked like an extra in a music video. Ray settled for muttering at the room in general as he made an appointment to get it fixed.

Ray was pretty sure that his hair wouldn't fall out if he got it bleached twice in the same day, but he'd seen photos of Vecchio. He wasn't taking any chances.

Pink. God had a sense of humor. One little joke about pastels being bad for his image, one (not so) tiny crush on his partner, and suddenly he was walking around like some sort of rainbow warrior.

And that was a decent idea. Not the walking around, that was a terrible thought and the sooner he got to the damn car and dug out his cap and put it on the better, but the partner one. Fraser would have something, some potion made out of elk snot and walleye scales, and Ray's troubles would be over.

When he caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror, he let out a groan and pounded his fist on the dashboard a couple of times. It didn't help. His hair was still pink, and now his fist hurt.

***

Fraser was changing out of his uniform and arguing with Dief about the necessity of a quick run before dinner when he heard the consulate doors slam. From the sound of it, his plans for a quiet evening at the library were about to be replaced with something less soothing.

"Fraser! Hey, where are you?" Ray's steps echoed on the foyer floor.

"I'm in my office." Fraser moved from behind the door, assuming that Ray wouldn't take the time required to knock. Still buttoning his jeans, Fraser stepped into the middle of the room just before the handle hit a filing cabinet. Ray stomped in, briefly pausing to shove the door back after it bounced against his arm. Fraser turned to grab his sweater from a shelf. "Is there a case?"

Ray snorted. "Nah. Got a personal problem I thought you could maybe help me with."

Fraser wasn't sure if Ray heard his response from the inside of the sweater, which suddenly felt much too warm. Perhaps the weather was changing. And how in the world did his sleeves get turned inside out?

When he managed to emerge, hopefully with only minimal damage to his dignity, Ray was staring at the inbox and tugging at his jacket. Fraser cleared his throat. "A personal problem?"

Ray glanced up for a moment but shook his head and returned to contemplating the stapler. Seeming to find reassurance in the blotter and its accompanying office supplies, he shook himself and took a deep breath. Fraser waited quietly as Ray made several aborted gestures toward his neck before finally closing his eyes and pulling off the hat.

Fraser let out a gasp that he almost entirely failed to disguise as a cough and Ray quickly pulled his cap back on, bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he wanted nothing more than to take a swing at anyone who dared comment. Fraser watched his shoulders ("Always keep an eye on the shoulders, son. By the time a punch gets to his hands, it's too late to duck") and tried to think of an appropriate response.

Apparently he had waited too long, as Ray tensed and began to turn for the door. Fraser quickly retrieved his Stetson, prepared to follow Ray outside if necessary. He was surprised when Ray gestured to his head in helpless frustration rather than storming out of the building.

Fraser attempted to project sincerity. "It's quite, ah, interesting. I take it your appointment with Mr. Lessig went well?"

Ray twitched and balled his fists. His shoulders didn't move.

Fraser considered suggesting that Ray have that vein in his forehead checked. Surely such an obvious indicator of high blood pressure would make him less likely to pour extra salt on so many of his meals. As Ray's hands clenched at his sides, he decided that perhaps that discussion was better left for another time.

"Well? Does this _look_ like it went well? Do I look like a happy camper, here? Because, unless you have gone blind from the sight of me, maybe you noticed something different? Something like, oh, maybe that my hair is fucking pink!"

Fraser nodded and made unsuccessful soothing gestures. "I had observed that it wasn't quite your usual shade. But I simply assumed that you were trying to avoid, um, routine." Ray rolled his shoulders. Fraser took a small step back before he continued, "You were expanding your boundaries, perhaps."

Dief growled from the corner, and Fraser resisted the urge to tell him to mind his own business. He suspected that finding out that the wolf thought his new hair color was some sort of camouflage for the tracking of pensioners would not be well received.

Ray rolled his eyes and snorted with disbelief, but his hands uncurled slightly. "Boundaries. Yeah, Fraser, this is outside my boundaries. Way outside. So far outside my boundaries that it has run right back back into them again."

Fraser nodded his head. Perhaps if Ray continued talking, he'd start to make some sort of sense.

"But hey, I'm here now. What've you got to take this stuff out? I can't go into the station like this." Ray sounded frustrated but hopeful. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, drumming his fingers on the opposite shirtsleeve.

Fraser straightened his collar while he considered the options. For someone who complained about the smell, consistency, and provenance of any and all natural remedies, Ray put rather too much faith in the corrective abilities of such things. "I'm afraid nothing springs to mind. Perhaps there is some commercial application that would do the trick?"

Ray's face fell, and Fraser wished for something, anything, that would do what he asked. Where was his father at moments like this? Moments when he actually needed some advice? Probably out wandering in the snow and talking to Buck about cheese.

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow. It didn't help.

Ray sighed and ran his hand up the back of his neck and over his head, dislodging the cap in the process. It rolled off the edge of the desk, and Ray disappeared as he ducked to chase it. Fraser flinched at a series of bangs and cracks punctuated by Ray's voice reciting a litany of profanity.

"Are you all right?" Fraser peered over the edge of the desk and only narrowly avoided being knocked over as Ray regained his feet, hat firmly in place, left hand cradled in his right and a scowl on his face.

"Quit asking me that. I'm pink. That is not all right. And now my hand hurts." Ray hunched over, holding his injured hand to his chest. He glared at Fraser and the room in general.

Fraser stepped around the corner of the desk, pulling Ray to face him and grabbing his shoulder to guide him into the chair. "Let me see, please."

"You already saw it. It's pink. Pink, pink, pink." Ray held his hat down firmly.

Fraser shook his head. "Not your hair. Your hand. It may be broken."

"It's not broken." Fraser ignored Ray's protests as he gently bent the fingers out. "Ow! Dammit!" Ray snatched his hand back, striking his elbow on the arm of the chair in the process. "Fuck! I just can't win." Ray dropped his head forward and Fraser winced in sympathy as it thudded on the desk. Ray rolled his head and turned his face toward Fraser, an action which once again revealed his (really quite strikingly colored) hair. Ray's eyes brightened as they ran across Fraser's face. He squinted speculatively, and Fraser found himself unable to look away.

Perhaps this, then, was the moment for which he'd been waiting? Fraser was prepared to assist in any manner needed. He was, as the Ray would say, _up for anything_.

"Is there something else that I can do?" Fraser tried to convey his willingness to comfort Ray through his tone. The effect was rather spoiled by the nervous hitch in his voice.

Ray licked his lips, and slowly stood from behind the desk. He briefly ran his palms down his slacks and stepped closer. Fraser held his breath.

"Can I?" There was only one answer to that question, and Fraser breathed out a sigh that indicated his approval. "Really?" Fraser nodded.

Ray's hands slowly rose to frame his face, and Fraser closed his eyes.

A few moments later, he opened them again as Ray lifted his hat, turned it, and crammed it firmly down on his own head.

Fraser tried not to think about what his own shoulders were telegraphing as he ran his fingers through his hair and began to back away. He was stopped by Ray's hand, which was fisted in the front of his sweater. Fraser shook his head in confusion, but Ray merely smiled, whispered, "Thanks for the help," closed his eyes, and leaned in.


End file.
